The World Just Keeps On Ending
by whatthefoucault
Summary: The boys discover that the world is ending at the end of the day, and try to sort out exactly what to do.  Features ponchos, stationery, and cups of tea, among other things.  Existential crises abound, mayhem ensues, garnished with a healthy dose of fluff
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer**: I may have pasted googly eyes and the appropriate outfits onto a pair of socks and named them Howard and Vince, but I don't _technically_ own the Mighty Boosh, or they'd be having it off a lot more often.

**A/N**: This is my first foray into Boosh territory, fanfictionally-speaking. If I maybe kindasorta almost do it a little bit of justice, I'll be a happy little camper.

The World Just Keeps On Ending

The day began like any other – or at least as much like any other as days got in their little world. Howard Moon rolled quietly out of bed, pausing for a moment to reflect on how still and peaceful Vince (Noir, that is – his longtime flatmate/sometime bandmate/mostly friend, noted boot-fancier and former jungle boy) looked as he dozed gently in the morning light. Howard wondered what he dreamt of. Shiny things, dancing banana trees, magical trousers and whatnot more than likely, he concluded, tiptoeing past Vince's bed. He dressed quickly (trousers: beige; shirt: louder), dusted off his moustache, and strode triumphantly into the flat. It was their day off.

Howard had been up for some time by the time Vince emerged from their Fortress of Solitude: he surmised that a considerable amount of time had elapsed, as he had long finished doing the washing up from breakfast (chutney and cheese baguette) was already on his third cup of tea (and his second rotation of _Mingus at Antibes_). Vince danced into the kitchen, hips swinging: he would have a lot more time to get things done in the day, thought Howard, if he didn't insist on his absurdly detailed morning routine of waxing, varnishing, straightening, glittering, and God knows what else. Howard thought Vince looked fine first thing in the morning: barefoot, hair undone, unpolished and unpainted, his only adornments being the flush of sleep still spread across his cheeks, and the slightly oversized and threadbare Rolling Stones tshirt he slept in, though he most certainly would never (not ever NEVER) say so out loud. Vince, however, thought Howard could use with a bit more sparkle, on the other hand. Anything could be improved by a little sparkle, he thought. The man was just so... tweedy.

"Alright, Little Man?" said Howard. "Sleep well?"

"Yeah, genius," replied Vince. "Dreamt I'd got these wicked boots from a little shop in Tottenham Court Road, made by this leather belt with googly eyes glued to it who said his name was Devendra O'Hanrahan. Was a bit gutted when I woke up and discovered that the boots weren't real. They were well massive! How about you?"

"Whatever dreams may have come in the dead of night were long forgotten by morning," mused Howard. "I thought we might have a picnic lunch and then play a game of Scattergories."

"Scattergories? That's dead boring. You've got the recreational taste of my Nan! Anyway, it's my day off, I expect I've got something planned," said Vince.

"You expect?" Howard raised an eyebrow at his companion.

"Well, you can't expect someone as in-demand as me to remember _all_ of his social engagements, do you? I pencil them in on the fridge calendar!" he said, his eyes scrolling through the days of the week.

It turned out that someone had indeed pencilled something in for their day off. Vince was quite sure it wasn't in his handwriting, but read it aloud anyway.

"A-ha! It says here for today: World Ends. Must be the name of a really wizard band playing tonight or something, or is it that new nightclub across the road from Sainsbury's... No, that club's just called DANCE, MOTHERFUCKER!" he shouted in New Wave Band VoiceTM, accompanying the club's name with the appropriate roboty avant garde arm movements. "Hmm, World Ends... You know, I don't remember writing this. Did I write this?" he raised an eyebrow at his companion.

Howard rose from the sofa to inspect the note scrawled on the day's refrigerated entry.

he squinted at it a moment.

"No, that's Naboo's," he concluded.

"If it's not one of mine, I wonder what it means, then? He's got the date circled in red biro and all," said Vince, brow furrowed in concentration.

"He did say we could ring him in Ibiza in the event of an emergency, but I hardly think this qualifies," said Howard, stroking his chin thoughtfully.

The point was moot, however, as Vince already had his mobile out and was poking impatiently at Naboo's speed-dial number.

"What d'you want?" came an irritated voice at the other end of the line, barely audible over the sound of the kind of God-awful cheerful techno music that hadn't much changed since the mid-1990s, and that people with no taste still liked to dance to.

"Alright Naboo, it's me, Vince," said Vince. "Howard and I've got a problem. It's a bit of an emergency, actually."

"You haven't been into my stash of potions again, have you?" asked Naboo. "And if you've been poking around in the super-secret cabinet marked Shamans Only in big black letters that I keep locked again, you're on your bloody own, mate."

"We haven't been messing about with your shit, I swear!" said Vince.

"Then what? What's the emergency then?" asked Naboo, quickly losing patience.

"You know how you've got today's date circled on the fridge calendar, with the words World Ends written in? What's that mean, exactly?"

"Oh, _that_. That today, is it? It means what it says: the world's going to end tonight." Naboo seemed strangely nonchalant about his revelation. "Look, I gotta run – I've got a game of strip Scattergories to get back to. And don't call back again unless it's an actual emergency. It was nice knowing you guys, bye!"

Click.

Vince stood in stunned silence for some moments before Howard could wait no longer to begin his interrogation.

"Well, what did he say?" he demanded.

"The world's going to end tonight," Vince's voice was now barely a whisper. It was as though all the energy and excitement at the prospect of a new day drained out of him in that moment, through the soles of his boots, soaked through the kitchen floor, dripped down through the downstairs ceiling onto the floor below, ate through the floorboards, and was absorbed almost unseen into the soil beneath it all, swallowed into the crust of the earth, so diluted that it was as though it may as well have never existed.

"You what?" exclaimed Howard. "You mean, end as in... end?"

"Yeah," said Vince, bracing himself with one hand against the refrigerator door, head spinning as reality hit him square in the face like the bottom layer of a jar of that all-natural peanut butter that goes all hard if you put it in the fridge or forget to stir it up. "As in, no more world. No more you, no more me, no more Ibiza, no more boots by Devendra O'Hanrahan..."

"No more _Mingus at Antibes_," added Howard, just then beginning to register the gravity of the situation.

"So... now what do we do?"


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer**: I own a poncho that was handwoven by the women of a tiny village in Sichuan province (and it does make me silly happy whenever I wear it) but I sure as heck don't own the Boosh. I just hack into their brains and make them do stuff for shits and giggles.

**A/N**: For those of you just joining us, here's the story so far: turns out the world's ending. Oh, bother.

Howard and Vince sat at opposite ends of the sofa, staring at nothing in particular, for what felt like a very, very long time.

Every once in a while, one of them would begin to move as though to speak, raising a hand slightly or opening their mouths, but no words came. Surely no words could halt the end of the world, and if there were words out there that held that sort of power, neither Vince nor Howard could think of them.

Time passed, ticking forward, marching on; neither of them kept track of how much time had passed in silence – though if they had been keeping track, they would have known that the whole ordeal of pained sitting was, in actual fact, about a minute. Vince was the first to speak, saying:

"Damned if I'm going to spend the rest of my existence moping about with you on this bloody sofa, for fuck's sake,"

and standing, wandering back to his bedroom. Howard glanced wistfully after him for a moment, then resumed his quiet ruminations. It was so unfair, he thought, to be plucked out of existence so prematurely, when he still had so much to give, so much to accomplish. He let out a heavy sigh.

"Ta-daa!" announced Vince triumphantly upon his return, standing before Howard. Howard looked up. Vince was beaming down at him, eyes sparkling, full of all the bliss more associated with a trip to Topshop on a really good sale day than the end of the world, thought Howard. Then he realized what Vince was wearing.

"Poncho!" exclaimed Vince, holding out another such garment, presumably intended for Howard to wear.

"It's impossible to be unhappy in one," he smiled. "It's scientific! Don't just sit there gawping, put this on."

Vince swooped towards Howard, throwing the poncho over his head. Howard let out a shrill cry of "AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAADON'TTOUCHME" and tried in vain to wriggle free of Vince's well-intentioned advances. Before he could make good his escape, however, Vince's nimble hands made quick work of yanking the poncho over Howard's head and shoulders in one deft movement.

"There," smiled Vince, gently smoothing the poncho over Howard's frame, admiring his handiwork. "Feel better yet?"

"Oh yes," glared Howard, squinting his tiny little brown eyes at Vince. "Ecstatic. Honestly, this is useless, Vince."

"Right," said Vince, clasping his hands together decisively, ignoring Howard's maudlin protestations. "Let's go completely crazy apeshit!"

And with that, Vince was off and running downstairs with a rumble and a clatter. Howard, still a state of despair that could only be described as _well_ artistic, remained curled in upon himself in a sad little ball, until he began to hear a series cacophonous of noises emanating from the Nabootique that sounded something like _BANGBANGBANG rattlety-BOOM KERRASH tinkletinkletinkle_ and a series of shouted expletives he would more than likely consider too unsavoury to repeat. He supposed it fell to him to investigate the cause of the ruckus.

By the time Howard had thrown off his poncho, folded it neatly, replaced it in the ponchos area of the wardrobe, readjusted his shirt, readjusted his moustache, and arrived downstairs, Vince had managed to damage most of the major furniture in the shop, and stood with one glittering boot in the air, hovering menacingly over the Safety Pin Cottage, making roaring dinosaur noises. Howard cried out in horror.

"Fod God's sake, Vince!" he shouted. "You can't just trample through Stationery Village like you're some kind of glam rock Godzilla! I'm not having it, no sir! I expect you to pay the community the respect it deserves," he protested, crossing his arms.

"Fuck Stationery Village," spat Vince, reestablishing his menacing balance over the village.

"You take that back," threatened Howard, his anger rapidly rising to a rolling boil. Stationery Village was his pride and joy. There was such a perfect, serene beauty inherent in well-arranged stationery, and Stationery Village was the premier example of well-arranged stationery, to be sure. There was no way he was going to allow anyone to inflict such wanton destruction upon it.

"Fuck Stationery Village in its blu-tack bum!" shouted Vince, raising his arms in exasperation, but acquiescing at least insofar as he lowered his boot to the floor and resumed a standing posture without incident. "Don't you see? Nothing we do makes any difference! There are no consequences anymore! The world's about to end, so why not just let loose and tear shit up?"

"Because," Howard began, hands on hips, puffing out his chest, "there is something to be said for knowing we retained a semblance of dignity – "

"Fuck dignity!" said Vince, cutting Howard off mid-sentence. "Fuck it sideways, fuck it diagonally, fuck it upside down, fuck it in the alley behind the Mod Club in nothing but gold cowboy boots and matching leather chaps!"

Howard blinked, making the sort of mildly disgusted face one makes when opening the refrigerator and discovering that the mozzarella in there that's got to be only about a week old has _definitely_ gone off.

"That's downright perverted," said Howard, shuddering. "And possibly incriminatingly detailed, come to think of it. Was that last bit based on – no, I don't want to know."

"Look, that's – that's not important," Vince blushed, brushing off the suggestion. "What matters is this is the time to let loose! Revel in the catharsis of destruction! Nothing matters anymore, roll with it!"

Howard thought for a long, careful moment, staring off into the thinky distance while Vince tried to figure out what Howard was looking at. Eventually, he arrived at a conclusion.

"All right, I will," he resolved. "I'm going to get all existential on this village!"

"Yeah, whatever!" grinned Vince.

Howard took a deep, almost shaking breath, bracing himself in preparation for the destruction he was about to begin inflicting. He slowly raised his arm. Vince looked on with girlish delight, silently cheering him on. Just before he was about to chop down the sellotape tree, he let out a panicked squeal and ran out of the room.


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: **I own a couple of those tree-shaped car air fresheners ("new car smell" my arse; it smells like my Nan's perfume, ffs) but I sure as heck don't own no Boosh. I just let them sneak into my head and tell me what to write.

**A/N: **Hey, the story's half-finished! Yippee! For those of you just tuning in, here's a recap: world's ending, ponchos, wanton destruction of carefully-arranged stationery. Now onward, to chapter three!

Vince frowned slightly, furrowing his brow. After a quick survey of the epic carnage he had inflicted upon the Nabootique, Vince quickly followed Howard up the stairs and back into the flat. Howard was back in the living room, frantically rearranging his record collection, wearing an expression of pure jazz-infused despair.

"What happened back there, Howard?" asked Vince. "You were doing so well!"

"I just couldn't do it, Vince," he said quietly. "I wouldn't have been able to live with myself knowing that Stationery Village wasn't able to live out its last hours of existence in peace and happiness."

"You're well weird, you know that?" Vince plopped down on the couch beside Howard, just a little too close for Howard's comfort. Deliberately, of course.

"Just think: all those people out there, blissfully ignorant that this is their last day on Earth." sighed Howard. "So many things they'll never have the chance to do... So many things _I'll_ never have the chance to do, Vince... I'll never finish writing the Great British Novel, never spend a year in the Appalachians playing the banjo and eating hush puppies, never have a building named after me at Leeds University... And I never did have the chance to find my lost love again, either."

"Lost love?" Vince raised an eyebrow at Howard.

"Her name was Martine. She was a pirate. And I loved her with all my heart," said Howard, his eyes lighting up, staring dreamily off into the soft-focus distance of memory.

"She was a pirate?" asked Vince, incredulously.

"Yes, a pirate," replied Howard. "Born into the French nobility, she defiantly left home and chose a life of adventure on the high seas. We met one day when her ship was docked in Leeds – "

"You turnip, Leeds doesn't even have a – "

"I was entranced by her luscious raven curls, her blue eye that sparkled even brighter than the sea, her diamond-encrusted Christian Lacroix eyepatch… She told me her name, said she thought my hat was cute, and then had to go back to her ship. I never saw her again," said Howard, his gaze falling to the floor, sadly.

"Yeah? Where the hell was I during all this?" asked Vince, perplexed, almost twitching with instinctive jealousy.

"In the jungle, I expect. I was four," admitted Howard.

"Oh, right," Vince nodded in understanding, patting Howard on the shoulder. "Probably for the best you never found her then, eh? Chances are if you met her now, she'd have lost most of her teeth to scurvy, not to mention at least one missing limb. Maybe even a social disease…" he trailed off.

"You always seem to know just the right things to say to cheer me up," said Howard. Vince was uncertain as to whether or not he meant it. "Anything you regret not doing?"

"Yeah, I was thinking of maybe putting red highlights in my hair next week. Guess I'll never see how that would've looked now, eh?" shrugged Vince.

"That's it?"

"Red highlights is a big step, Howard!" he protested, self-consciously fluffing about with some of his feathery layers.

"You know, I always wanted to see if I could break the world record for the fastest visit to the Louvre," mused Howard. "You know, the one they set in _Bande __à__ Part_."

"Band o' what?" asked Vince.

"_Bande __à__ Part_. Only one of the greatest films ever made, a masterpiece of the French New Wave. You know, the movie I recommended to you, because it's the one movie in the world that completely encapsulates basically everything about me?" said Howard, frustrated.

"Oh, yeah, that one," nodded Vince in unconvincing recognition.

"You said you liked it," said Howard.

"Yeah, I did," Vince smiled uncomfortably.

"Okay, what was your favourite part of it, then?" asked Howard, crossing his arms.

"The part with... the band?" ventured Vince.

"You didn't watch it, did you?" asked Howard.

"Yes I did... n't." said Vince, sheepishly.

"Fine," said Howard. "Back in a minute."

Howard stood, the shift in weight from his sudden absence from the sofa causing Vince to fall sideways. Howard slammed the bathroom door behind him. Vince facepalmed. Howard was upset. Vince decided he should follow and check on him in there. If he was depressed enough, and he had every right to be, all things considered, Vince legitimately worried about what Howard might do to himself. The kind of Indian burn a man in that state could inflict on himself could be... Vince tried not to assume the worst. He knocked on the bathroom door.

"Howard? You all right in there?" he shouted through the door. There was no response. He banged harder. "Howard, let me in! What are you doing?"

Still no response. This was serious, thought Vince. He steeled himself, summoning forth every ounce of inner strength he usually reserved for fighting off vicious fashion hunters in the vintage shops of Camden, and with one swift side-kick, busted the bathroom door right off its hinges.

Howard regarded Vince with dull surprise.

Vince regarded Howard with utter shock and horror.

"What the hell do you think you're doing with that razor?" he exclaimed.

"What does it look like I'm doing?" replied Howard. "I'm shaving my moustache."

"But for God's sake, why?" asked Vince, with increasing desperation.

"The world's ending, what have I got to lose? Besides, you're the one who said it looked like a small animal crawled onto my face and died there," said Howard.

"Did I? That was a good one," Vince laughed to himself.

Vince's hand found Howard's wrist, and he gently eased Howard's arm down, resting the razor on the edge of the sink.

"You mustn't take everything I say so seriously," said Vince, smiling apologetically. With one hand holding Howard's cheek, he gently wiped his moustache clean with a small cloth. It was rare that Howard let anyone to touch him. Vince was secretly thankful for the times he allowed such little intimacies. His eyes met Howard's, and they locked in an awkward stare. Vince smiled at him, then ran out of the room, for fear that if he had stayed, he would undoubtedly have done something quite possibly friendship-ruiningly silly.


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer:** I own this gigantic red feather I found in front of some building in Toronto today that I've taken to wearing in my hair, but I don't own the Boosh. I expect that this time next week, however, everybody and their mom's going to be clamoring to get their own feathers. It looks well genius.

**A/N:** Ooh, plot twists! Not really. It's like driving through the plot prairies, this one. You knew this was going to happen. Oh well. Because I'm thorough like that, I did actually write and record that crimp. There's a video of it if anybody's interested.

When Howard found Vince again, Vince was sat in near-total darkness in their room, hugging his knees to his chest beside his bed. He was listening to Nine Inch Nails. This was even more dire of an existential slump than Howard had imagined. He would have to pull out all the stops to bring Vince out of his Pit of Despair.

"Alright Vince," he said, approaching the other man cautiously. He gingerly lowered himself, sitting down beside Vince on the floor. Vince mumbled into his fringe, head resting on his kneecaps. He sniffled slightly.

Sad Vince was unnerving, thought Howard. It meant something was fundamentally wrong with the world. It made his heart hurt. He had to do something really, really good. He leaned in a little closer to Vince, and smiled.

"Down in the basement, eating all your ice cream, chocolate cherry waffle cone, sprinkles all in a row, bubblegum bubblegum bubblegum, fudge! Radioactive noise – "

"I'm not up for a crimp, Howard," Vince said quietly. "I mean, why bother?"

"Why bother, Little Man? Because you don't want to spend the rest of the night sat here on your bum feeling sorry for yourself, do you? What kind of an exit is that for the great Vince Noir?" asked Howard. He struggled for a moment, his hand hovering a few inches from Vince, hesitating, before he eventually placed it awkwardly on Vince's shoulder.

"I guess you're right," sniffled Vince, turning his head to look at Howard. His eyes were bloodshot.

"And you definitely don't want to smudge your eyeliner, do you?" asked Howard.

"God, no!" Vince laughed, wiping under his eyes with the back of his hand.

"That's the spirit, Little Man," smiled Howard. "Listen, maybe we need to be proactive about this, you know? Take on the end of the world head-on, say 'We're not ready to be ended yet, you bastards!'" he said, shaking his fist.

"Oh please. You, take on the end of the world? You were frightened of my Nan!" Vince scoffed.

"That wasn't your Nan, Vince, that was a velociraptor in a floral housedress," insisted Howard.

"And I couldn't believe you were so insensitive about it!" protested Vince. "As soon as I introduced you, you ran out of the room, screaming like a little girl! It's no wonder she never invited us round for Christmas dinner ever again," laughed Vince, shaking his head.

"Yeah, sorry about that," Howard blushed.

"I didn't mind, to be honest," admitted Vince. "My Nan's bread sauce looked like hobo sick spiked with bits of tinfoil, and she recycled the exact same brick of pudding five years straight once. It was enough to put me off food until at least April."

Vince chuckled quietly to himself, stretching his arms behind his head. Howard took a moment to admire his companion's profile, then the two sat for a time in companionable silence, not counting the quiet strains of _The Downward Spiral_ still playing in the background: when the downright pornographic beats of a particularly saucy track began to play, however, Howard shifted uncomfortably, crossing his arms and folding inward; it was all he could do to keep from being driven into an absolute tizzy, and this was hardly the time or place for tizzies. Howard was unsure as to whether Vince had noticed his discomfort, but he was happy when Vince flicked the stereo's remote up from the floor beside him, pushed a button, and the music changed to an old Kate Bush LP. This was a pleasant respite from the previous choice of music for about four bars, until it dawned on Howard that Ms. Bush was positively teeming with the kind of unbridled sexual tension that verged on the unseemly.

"Hey Vince," he said, hoping a nice dialogue would provide a welcome distraction from the content of the music still emanating from the stereo. "You ever thought about growing a moustache?"

"Are you joking?" said Vince, raising his eyebrow at Howard as if to suggest that Howard had gone utterly wrong, "I'd look well weird. I'd look like Frank Zappa."

Howard considered this for a moment. Zappa Vince? Hmm. Maybe he was right. Nevertheless:

"But you have to admit that there's something to be said for a well-maintained moustache," he said, nonchalantly stroking his upper lip. "It can look dignified, handsome..."

"Yeah, on you maybe, but not me, mate," said Vince. "Besides, I rather enjoy being able to confuse people, and you can't really do that with a moustache. Or if you can, I'd just have blokes see me and say 'Phwoarrr, that bird'd be well fit if it weren't for that horrid 'stache.'"

"Very true, Little Man," Howard smiled.

Howard frowned. Hang on a minute. Rewind. Something strange had just happened.

"Did... Did you just call me handsome?" Howard was confused.

"Yeah, I guess I did," Vince said, blushing a little.

"Thanks," smiled Howard, blushing as red as exactly 5,621.4 sackfuls of beetroots.

"Cup of tea?" asked Vince, standing.

"Go on, then," replied Howard, following Vince to the kitchen. Vince skipped ahead of him, filling the kettle with water and setting it to boil. Then they waited. And waited.

Howard thought. And thought. The world was about to end. He might as well just come out with it. So he did.

"You know, since I won't get another chance to say this, I guess I'll just say it again now... Vince, I love you," said Howard, hands clasped behind his back, gazing down at his sandals (and _socks_, for the love of God), shuffling his feet.

"Yeah, I know. I love you too," smiled Vince, like it was the biggest no-brainer in the history of the universe.

"Yeah, but you're just saying it now because I said it," countered Howard.

"I'm not just saying it because you said it, I really do love you," replied Vince. He stepped a little closer to Howard, who now blushed like 6,792.6 sackfuls of beetroots.

"Yeah," Howard sighed, looking away. He studied the kitchen tile beside his right foot in great detail: if there was one thing innocuous enough that it might cause the butterflies in his stomach to calm themselves rather than bursting out of his belly, hemorrhaging all over Vince's silver blouse, it was linoleum. "But I mean," he continued, suddenly unable to censor himself, against his better judgment, "I love you like I'd probably maybe even let you... snog me a little, and you're not – "

"Oh come on, I am a _bit_ gay for you, you know," said Vince, rolling his eyes.

"Seriously?" Howard looked up, surprised.

"You daft turnip, are you telling me you never noticed? I just assumed you were the only person in the world who _didn't_ fancy me," Vince laughed, facepalming.

"I thought you didn't fancy _me_!" exclaimed Howard. His beetroot count had to be a solid 12,478.3 by then.

"Right, I knew you were fucking clueless, but... I've been in love with you for ages," Vince said softly, placing his arms around Howard's shoulders. He felt a slight twinge of panic as he did so, anticipating Howard's customary "Don't touch me, sir!" response, but this time, it never came.

"Vince..."

Vince smiled. Howard smiled. Neither of them noticed that the kettle had begun to let out a loud whistle.

"So... now what do we do?"


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer**: Today, a 5-year-old girl came up to the desk at work with her mum, and asked me "Why are you dressed like a pirate?" Her mother tried to explain that I wasn't dressed like a pirate (I was clearly dressed like a glam rock sailor, but I can forgive a 5-year-old for not knowing the difference) but she was very insistent. It was precious. And I still don't own the Boosh.

**A/N**: It's the second-last chapter! Big high fives for having made it this far with me. Also, I wish I could do commentaries on my chapters like directors do commentaries on their films. I'm such a commentary slut.

Howard lay on his back, staring at nothing in particular, an expression of dumb bliss plastered across his face. Vince was snuggled into his side, breathing in time with the rise and fall of Howard's chest.

It hadn't been anything like it was supposed to be, or at least, nothing like Howard had planned. He had always imagined that when he finally chose to cross that physical boundary, there would be candles and soft jazz playing in the background (Brubeck, perhaps?) and everything would be lit in soft focus and he would, of course, be as handsome, charming, sophisticated as ever. He most certainly did not imagine himself tripping over his own trouser leg and falling face-first into the mattress as he tried to undress, sending Vince to the floor, doubled over in a fit of giggles.

It had, however, been exactly as Vince had imagined. It was messy and awkward and sexy and hilarious and at times he could tell that Howard wasn't _quite_ sure what he was doing (in spite of that secret, strategically dog-eared Mills and Boon paperback he kept hidden under his bed that Vince wasn't meant to know about) and, for a minute there, Vince totally wasn't even worrying about whether his hair still looked all right.

(He hoped his hair still looked all right.)

"Now I get it," said Howard. It was the first full, coherent sentence Howard had managed to utter in hours. Before that, all he could get out was "That was," and before that "Vince, I think I," and before that, a few hours of rabbity snugglenoises.

"Get what?" asked Vince.

"That's love," he sighed.

Vince shifted upward slightly, tracing his fingers across Howard's face, placing gentle kisses across his neck and jawline. Howard stroked Vince's back in soft circles, sometimes tangling in his sweat-dampened hair.

"That wasn't exactly love, that was sex," observed Vince. "Proper top sex, if I do say so myself, mind you, but this bit here, the bit after,_ this_ is love. The bit where we're just... together. The bit where you're not scrambling to get your boots back on or hoping they haven't stolen your wallet while you were passed out. That's love."

"I'm not sure if that's one of the most beautiful things I've ever heard, or the most cynical," said Howard. "Has anyone stolen your wallet?"

"What? No! I mean, to tell you the truth, I might have been a bit less..." and here he tried to convey his meaning via a series of vague and unhelpful hand movements, "...than, you know, I let on."

"You don't mean...?" Howard sat up a little in surprise, his squinty little eyes widening to almost (but not quite) normal human eye-size, and he was once again apparently unable to finish his sentences.

"I do mean," said Vince, nervously twisting a corner of the bedsheet between his fingers.

"You're serious? I suppose I always just assumed you were always off getting... you know, off with people," by the end of Howard's statement, his voice had lowered almost beyond the audible range of sounds.

"Well, I guess it _is_ pretty easy to leap to that conclusion, I mean look at me," admitted Vince, rolling his eyes. "I can see where you'd be confused. And I mean, remember Laser MacDonald?"

"No," said Howard.

"Yes you _do_," insisted Vince. "That bloke that interviewed you for the documentary he was filming about my hair?"

"Oh, _that_ Laser MacDonald. The one with the short-term memory loss. After two hours I gave up on trying to find exciting new answers to 'So, what d'you think of Vince's hair?'" said Howard. It took Vince a moment to realize that the funny voice Howard was doing in his impersonation of Laser MacDonald was ostensibly meant to be Laser MacDonald's Edinburgh Scots accent. He stifled his giggle.

"Yeah, that's him. So he had this mate, Maggie, and according to him, she well fancied me. So I reckon I probably could have got off with her," he said.

"So why didn't you?" asked Howard.

"Well, she had this one weird squinty eye that made it look like she was winking at me all the time, and she was always, like, chewing," said Vince, making a slight yuck-face.

"Gum?" asked Howard.

"Cud, more like," said Vince. "Besides, I was waiting."

"Waiting for what?"

"For you, you stupid tit. Took you long enough too," he smiled, snuggling back down.

"You know Vince, for a minute there, I forgot that the world was ending," said Howard.

The two of them immediately sat bolt upright, in utter horror.

"The world's still ending!" they shouted in unison.

"It can't be long now," said Vince, panicked. "What should we do?"

"Why don't we just stay here, together?" asked Howard, eyes already beginning to glaze back over, lovestruck.

"You must be joking!" exclaimed Vince. "I can't be seen at the end of the world all disheveled and barefoot, with, with... sex hair! I mean, _Cheekbone_ says barefoot is well out this week!"

Howard shook his head, bemused. Vince was already clambering out of bed, however, hunting through his wardrobe for just the right End of the World outfit. Reluctantly, Howard got up, and stepped into his slippers (Dusty Branflake) and robe (Cardboard Beige). Vince emerged from a mountain of flying garments in a tasteful lilac silk dressing gown with feather-trimmed bell sleeves, glitter-encrusted white cowboy booties, and matching headband.

"What do you think?" he beamed, striking an impressive ta-daa pose.

"You look like a packet of electric violet pastilles," said Howard.

"Wizard," smiled Vince. "Come on, let's go!"

"Go where?" Howard was suspicious.

"The roof," said Vince, holding out his hand, beckoning Howard to join him. "If the world's going to end, and there's nothing we can do about it anyway, I kind of want to see what happens. It could be cool!"

Howard was motionless, frozen in fear. His face was twisted in a grimace of pure horror. Vince approached him, waving and snapping his hand in front of Howard's face. There was no response, but for a kind of strangled high-pitched gasp somehow emanating from his face.

"Howard. Howard. Howard. Howard! Come on, for fuck's sake!" shouted Vince. "Oh shit, this is serious."

It took a good ten minutes of thawing frozen Howard out with Vince's most heavy-duty hairdryer before the man could move enough to speak.

"Vince... I don't know about this," stammered Howard.

"Pull yourself together, you berk! Where's your sense of adventure? Are you a man, Howard Moon, or are you a little girl's blouse?" Vince punctuated this question by slapping Howard rather robustly on the shoulder, causing the petrified man to stumble forward.

"You're right, Vince, I _am_ a man," Howard resolved, drawing himself up. "I'm Howard Moon, Man of Action!"

"Don't forget Colon Explorer!" added Vince.

"Yes Vince, thank you." Howard rolled his eyes. "Let's just... go to the roof then!"

The night looked normal enough: an endless field of deep blue stretched out before them, stars twinkling like the string of fairy lights Vince sometimes wrapped around his blue velvet cape for added flash; the Moon, smiling almost menacingly at them and mumbling his usual gobbledigook; the coldness of the roof tiles beneath them as they sat down, side by side, facing the end of the world head-on.

"This is it, Little Man," said Howard. "This is the way the world ends. Maybe with a bang, maybe a whimper, maybe no sound at all. But we won't go down without a fight, no sir. Here we are, at the end, bravely facing whatever unspeakable horrors may come – "

"Shut up, Howard," said Vince.

"Right," said Howard. "So... now what do we do?"

Vince grabbed hold of Howard's arm, snuggling into his shoulder.

"We wait."


	6. Chapter 6

**Disclaimer**: If you're seriously under the impression that I own the Boosh, yeah, no.

**A/N**: And this is the big scary last chapter you've no doubt been awaiting with like much anticipation and stuff. I hope it inspires less hate mail than, say, the abysmal last episode of Star Trek: Enterprise. DO NOT get me started.

"What the hell are you doing? Shop was supposed to open hours ago!"

Howard woke with a start, jerking into an upright position, nearly sending himself toppling off the roof. Vince rubbed his eyes sleepily, squinting in response to the harsh sunlight he was suddenly acutely aware of. He also was peripherally aware of an irritated voice somewhere in the murky distance of his emerging consciousness, like when you're phone's ringing but it's somewhere at the bottom of your purse, and every time you think you've found it, you just find you've pulled out your emergency hair spray or that turkish delight you'd been saving for later. He opened his eyes, and there was Naboo's head poking out of the roof's entrance, Bollo following behind him.

"Naboo? What's going on?" asked Vince.

"And it's a bloody mess down there. Whatever you can't fix is coming out of your wages," said Naboo. Naboo looked right fucked off at them.

"But, isn't the world ending?" asked Howard, head spinning.

"Oh, that. Didn't I tell you? I figured out I'd got the date wrong, it was supposed to be in the year 20010, not 2010. I thought I rang you last night," said Naboo.

"Naboo dropped serious voodoo E last night. Bollo find him spooning a Vespa," explained Bollo.

"So when I rang Vince...?" asked Naboo.

"Talking into Paul Oakenfold's armpit."

Naboo laughed. "Oh yeah, that was brilliant. All right boys, you've got an hour to clean up down there and open up, yeah?"

Howard and Vince climbed off the roof and stumbled back to their room to dress for the day. Vince was just shimmying into his trousers when Howard said

"Vince, I think we should talk."

Vince looked askance at him. "Uhh, about what?"

"Well," Howard began, shrugging into a camel-coloured turtleneck that muffled some of his words in an amusing manner, "in light of certain events that took place last night, things that transpired, things that may have been said, I thought we – "

"Howard, you are _not_ seriously dumping me, are you?" asked Vince, incredulous.

"What? No," Howard reassured him, "I just wanted to – "

"Brilliant," Vince beamed at him, adjusting his jacket.

"As I was saying," Howard began again, "in light of recent events, I think we should establish the …" Howard's speech was interrupted by the presence of Vince's face, suddenly – though by no means unpleasantly – in contact with his own.

"Yes, I think that's settled things," said Vince, patting Howard on the shoulder. "Good talk!"

On the way downstairs to the Nabootique, Vince stopped in a fit of giggles, squirming about, causing Howard to crash into him from behind, sending them both toppling forwards until they hit the bottom step with a loud thump.

"What was that?" asked Howard, standing up, then helping Vince to his giggly feet.

"It's just my phone," said Vince, pulling it out of his pocket, flipping it open. How Vince managed to fit a phone into those impossibly tight trousers he poured himself into, Howard had no idea. "I've just got a text."

Vince squinted slightly at his phonescreen, beaming. Howard shifted round to see what was so entertaining.

"Oi, get off!" shouted Vince, shoving Howard out of the way. "This might be personal!"

"Oh? Is it from one of your girlfriends?" teased Howard.

"Might be," smiled Vince. "Might be from one of my legion of fangirls."

"You mean Maggie?" asked Howard.

Vince blushed. "Yeah, Maggie."

It wasn't.

Howard had only been able to read the first letter of the sender's name before being shoved out of the way, but had at least seen that said letter was definitely not M. He couldn't be sure what of the other 25 letters it was, but suspected it may have been U or V, or perhaps L. Some longish-looking letter, he thought, though he had been unable to ascertain whether it was curvy or pointy in nature.

"How is she? Still chewing?" he asked.

"It's not from Maggie, you daft crease! You remember that DJ I had a chat with the other week at DANCE, MOTHERFUCKER!" he said, New Wave Gesturing along. "Well, turns out he was at our show at the Velvet Onion a couple months back, and we've been texting since we met at DANCE, MOTHERFUCKER!, and he reckons we should collaborate on a side project! What do you think?"

Vince grinned, waggling his eyebrows at Howard. Howard furrowed his brow.

"Would I get to play the bassoon?" he asked.

"Hang on, I'll ask him," said Vince, manically punching in letters with this thumbs.

The waited a moment. _Vvvt vvvt vvvt_, the phone vibrated. Vince flipped it back open.

"Is-it-an-e-lec-tric-ba-ssoon, question mark," he read out loud.

"I could go electric," said Howard after much consideration, stroking his chin thoughtfully.

"Brilliant!" said Vince, putting an arm nonchalantly around Howard's shoulder. Howard retreated slightly, by reflex, but willed himself to get over it. "We're called Dancing Banana Trees, and he's already booked us a gig in New York!"

"But Vince, we haven't even rehearsed yet," said Howard, with great skepticism and even greater concern.

"So?"


End file.
